come? She discovered with a thrill that she wasn’t even afraid. Her father had been a great warrior in Aryaal and had died a hero’s death. She’d never considered herself brave, but she suddenly realized that maybe his blood ran thicker in her veins than she’d ever suspected.
Two figures moved toward her between the barrier of troops. As they drew near, she recognized one as that Blood Cardinal, Don Hernan, who’d caused so much turmoil on New Scotland and then somehow escaped. He wore his usual bloodred cloak and strange, ornately decorated white hat. Despite the rest of the mob, he still wore the garish gold cross he’d always worn as well. She’d seen him twice since she was captured. He’d never spoken to her, even though she knew he spoke English and she’d yelled enough of it at him that he had to know she spoke it too. She’d expected to be tortured for information, but though she was tortured, no one ever asked her anything! It was as if they heard her… but didn’t! In their view, she was an animal. She couldn’t possibly speak, so they couldn’t hear her when she did. She wondered what he was doing here. Then she recognized the second figure.
“Fred!” she blurted, unable to restrain the shout. Some of the soldiers twitched, surprised, then studiously ignored her. Lieutenant (jg) Fred Reynolds was her pilot and her very best friend. She hadn’t seen him since they were forced down in the Caal-i-forniaa surf and taken prisoner by the retreating Doms. She’d figured he was dead.
“Fred!” she cried again, scrambling across the floor of her cage to crouch nearer as he approached. Then she saw the dull look on his face; the sunken eyes; the scabbed, shaved scalp. His cheekbones stood out in bruised relief and he looked half-starved. He was dressed in a long white robe that covered his feet. He halted beyond the bars-and he was standing, without restraint, beside Don Hernan. She was stunned. Could her friend be dead, after all?
“Here is the creature we found you with, my son,” Don Hernan said in his deceptively gentle voice, his black mustache quirking upward at one end of his mouth. “I preserved it, as I promised.”
“Of course, Your Holiness. I never doubted,” Fred whispered. His voice sounded… strange, rough, unused.
“Look upon it,” the Blood Cardinal commanded softly. Fred obeyed, and his eyes passed across Kari, but his expression never changed. “You realize now that it is a mere thing, an animal unworthy of thought or concern? One cannot befriend an animal. They have no place in the kingdoms of God, but to serve Him as the beasts they are, as they are made to do?” He gestured around. “This festival commemorates the service of one such beast, and some heretics”-he glowered around-“still cling to the belief there is thought behind that service.” He shrugged. “But there is not. No thought crosses their minds beyond their own comfort and what they will eat. They have no room in their minds and hearts for God. They serve God and us as draft animals, guards, and even such as the small dragons that brought your flying machine down because we feed them and make them comfortable!”
“Of course, Your Holiness,” Fred agreed in a firmer tone.
“Excellent. Then you cannot object if I do away with this… thing?” The question seemed almost a test.
“I have no moral or spiritual objection, Your Holiness,” Fred replied slowly, and Kari’s heart skipped a beat. She was stunned not only by Fred’s words, but by the utter lack of inflection. Oh Maker! What did they do to him?
“Not anymore,” the former aviator continued. “But from a practical standpoint…” he looked at the crowd beyond the barrier. “Since… it was placed on display and some have grown accustomed to it, there may be unrest if it’s destroyed. Besides, the Empire is allied to creatures like it. Having it captive here, for God’s soldiers to see in its vulnerability, may reduce the shock or even fear of meeting them in battle.”
Don Hernan’s eyebrow rose. “Most interesting. I had not even considered that.” He appraised Fred for a long moment. “I believe you are sincere.” His tone sounded surprised. “The Cleanser said you had embraced the faith with unusual earnestness, but I was skeptical at first. Since then, you have unstintingly assisted with our project to build our own flying machines, and held nothing back that I could see. It is rare enough for the heretic to gain true salvation, but to then go forward and strive so hard to perform God’s work… I am proud of you, my son!”
“Thank you, Your Holiness. I am yours and His to command.”
“And yet you still think!” Don Hernan enthused. “Very well. We will preserve this specimen until the enemies of God are destroyed; then we shall wipe it away along with all vestiges of this infantile predisposition of some of our flock to cling to ancient habits and associations!” He sighed and glanced at the sky. “With the death of this creature, even this silly festival will pass away at last! Come, my son. Let us go to the temple. It is almost time to pray-and I think you may be ready to be presented to His Supreme Holiness at last!”
Don Hernan and what had been Fred Reynolds quickly retreated, and the armed cordon closed and vanished behind them. Kari was still too stunned to speak, and even though she wanted to scream and bash through the iron bars with her bare hands, all she could do was crouch there, numb. She was stung and hurt, but mostly she felt a welling rage. Not at Fred or what she knew would be her ultimate fate, but toward the monsters that had already destroyed her friend.
“Oh, Fred!” she keened to herself.
“So you do speak,” came an English voice with no accent she could place, and she almost jumped out of her skin. The crowd had reverted to what it had been before, but one man, more bedraggled and disheveled than most, peered in at her like the urchins of the city often did. He had dark hair and dark skin like the multitude around him, but it was he who’d spoken, and he held her gaze-which was more than most would do.
“Of course I speak, you dope!” she flared, and caught herself when he shushed her and looked around.
“You… your species… truly is allied with the Empire?” the man asked urgently.
“It… I am.”
“The war goes badly?”
“Not when I left it,” she quipped. “The attack against the Imperial Isles failed, and we were going to the aid of the colonies.”
“Not what they tell the masses,” the man said ironically.
“Who are you?”
“No time. I cannot linger here. Just know that you have friends, and we will do what we may for you.”
With that, the tide of humanity swept the strange man away.
CHAPTER 11
Baalkpan, Borno
March 9, 1944
Chief Gunner’s Mate Dennis Silva, brightly attired in his very best shore-going rig and a fresh black eye patch, marched up the pier from the exhausted “Clipper” with a powerful, rolling gait that left his companions hard-pressed to keep up. His sea bag was balanced on one shoulder, and his Thompson hung from the other by its sling. The web belt around his waist was festooned with a bizarre variety of weapons. In addition to his beloved 1911 Colt and a pair of magazine pouches were a 1903 Springfield bayonet and a hard-used pattern of 1917 Navy cutlass. Perhaps most incongruous, a long-barreled, ornately carved flintlock pistol dangled from the belt by a long bar hook. The flight from Respite had taken almost a week, with numerous refueling, maintenance, and rest stops for the planes and pilots, and the trip had been hard on all of them but, apparently, him. He reached the dock and paused, gazing about, as if expecting a band. Many workers were present, but no fanfare awaited him and his companions.
“I swear,” he grumbled to Midshipman Stuart Brassey, who’d arrived panting beside him. Larry had matched his pace, but Lieutenant Laumer hadn’t tried to keep up. Now he joined them with a chuckle on the dock.
“What were you expecting, Silva? Ticker tape and dancing girls?”
“Maybe not for me, but ol’ Larry here deserves some notice, and so do you… sir.” He shrugged. “Anything I done to deserve praise was just me bein’ me. Mighta got me hung, in different circumstances.”
Laumer nodded thoughtfully. He admired Silva but wasn’t sure he liked him. He considered Silva a loose cannon and didn’t understand why his behavior was tolerated. He’d finally come to understand that Silva’s… talents were an asset to the war effort, however, and Captain Reddy apparently knew best how to handle the dangerous man. With that realization came another: Silva wasn’t his responsibility, nor was he really subject to Irvin Laumer’s command or discipline. Once that was clear, he no longer felt like he was neglecting his duty by not trying to enforce discipline on a man he was actually, well, maybe a little afraid of. He remained convinced that Silva set a
